


I Won't Hold my Breath

by NeverComingHome



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 21:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2556116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverComingHome/pseuds/NeverComingHome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post series 2. Sherlock comes back to find John dead, but not forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Won't Hold my Breath

**Author's Note:**

> Contains: Character deaths, (assisted) suicide, ghost/human relationship.

He’s been standing there in the corner for a week now. Sometimes he says, “I used to be a doctor”, sometimes he just cries. Sherlock wants to ask how it happened, but Mrs. Hudson shakes her head and suggests he leave it, have a heart and let him soldier on towards the afterlife. Sherlock rolls his eyes and disobeys, sets out toast and tea like nothing has changed.

“It’s burnt,” John notes with a frown.

“Not like you can eat it anyway.”

When Sherlock turns around there’s tea on the floor and an empty plate. He follows the trail of breadcrumbs to his room where John waits, blood on his chest.

“It’s not my fault,” he says.

Sherlock nods. “I know.”

“I only wanted to see you.”

“Same,” he smiles, slowly, and then not at all.

Sherlock used to lay on a black cot with a grey blanket and pray that a god existed so there was a chance he would come back to find everything the same. He’d walk in through the door and John would be in the chair and there wouldn’t be shouts, fists thrown, accusations or even long hugs with secrets mouthed into his shoulder. There’d only be them, laughing at each other from across the room and the sound of Mycroft having a heart attack in the distance.

He gets what he wanted since this is really the only way things could stay the same without staying the same. John taps his fingers on the counter, contemplating the possibilities. Sherlock can tell his mind is drifting when his index disappears momentarily into the wood.

“Unless you plan on moving on anytime soon.”

“Do you want me to?”

Sherlock chuckles, arm stretched along the top of the sofa. "Honestly?”

~*~  
He never wanted to before, never had the urge, but now that they can’t he finds the idea intriguing, scientifically speaking. He undoes his buttons, unzips and unlatches until he’s naked then closes his eyes. It feels sort of like standing beneath a block of melting ice, John focuses on what he wants to feel very clearly but in the end it affects Sherlock more than him. His chest, pale and bare rises and falls quickly, his throat works as he swallows hard while John’s fingers part his stomach with an invisible line.

“Feel that?”

“Barely.”

A scar, there on the side of the neck that John had once called ‘flawless’ beneath his breath. His teeth clench and Sherlock gasps. They look down to see fading nail marks and the one who hasn’t felt blood course through his veins for years looks more alive with a smile on his face than Sherlock has in his entire life.

“Again," he rasps and takes a step closer.

~*~  
Lestrade says he didn’t mean to, but John had held Sally in his arms and whispered for her not to worry, that it’d all be over soon. Let go of her, put the gun down, don’t let it happen like this, the words blurred together. John thumbed the safety off and begged him to do it or he would, he’d go through with it damn it.

The shot rang out and Lestrade had rushed forward because John could’ve dodged it but didn’t and smiled at the detective as his pain drained out on the pavement.

~*~  
“Tell him I forgive him.”

Sherlock pushes up his sleeves instead and leaves bruises on the detective who stands his ground, but doesn’t fight back.

~*~  
His tombstone is gray and simple.

John H. Watson: Brother, son, lover, friend, a good man who lived.

Sherlock leans against it with his coat open and John thinks of how his heart ached when he realized Sherlock was never coming back, focusing on how his teeth used to work while Sherlock digs his nails into his own palm and pretends it doesn’t hurt.

~*~  
“We can’t go on like this.”

“Says who?”

“Me.”

“Then leave, John, leave.”

Mycroft raps the end of his umbrella against the door, “Sherlock? Who are you talking to?”

“No one!” He calls without looking away from John, “Go away.”

He does.

~*~  
Tea on the ground and breadcrumbs leading to the room. Sherlock drops a rag on the spill and follows the trail to a knife stabbed into the middle of his (their) bed. He tells John to stop it, to move on like it’s so easy, like he _knows._

~*~  
“For real this time.”

Sherlock kicks a rock off the edge of the building, voice thick, “Will this make you happy?”

“No.”

He jumps.

~*~  
Mycroft takes a long drag of the cigarette, the smoke leaving him like a curse, like a little brother who never needed a keeper just someone to watch him fall. Lestrade raises an eyebrow.

“You don’t look surprised.”

“Neither do you.” He holds out the cig and the other man takes it.

~*~  
Adrian accepts the keys from the landlady and nearly slips when he enters the flat. An overturned kettle which surely can't be where the smell is coming from, it reminds him of hospitals and he nearly gags, making his way to the window and opening it. While he takes in a deep breath of fresh air, he's positive he hears laughing.

"Just the wind sweetheart," Mrs. Hudson tells him when he asks, sounding for all the world like she's said it before, "just the wind."


End file.
